Getting It Good!. Rhonda Nelson

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СКАЧАТЬ got out that Maxwell Commodities had been looking for a new firm, Tate had made sure that Hatcher Advertising was first in line for a shot at it. He’d then put his top executives on the job and Ross was fortunate enough to be counted among them.

      But it wasn’t good enough.

      He wanted lead on this account.

      And he was the logical choice because when it came to marketing men’s products—no brag, just fact, he was the best in the firm. Maxwell Commodities marketed everything from men’s toiletries to clothing as well as home fitness equipment and tools. The company catered exclusively to the male population and, while Ross admittedly didn’t have any idea how to market women’s products, he knew his stuff when it came to men. He was a guy, after all. His no-frills, no-bullshit style appealed to the man’s man. Facts, statistics, specs. Those were the things men were interested in. Aesthetics, thank God, didn’t enter the picture.

      Landing lead on this account would garner national recognition, would put him in the inside lane on the fast track of his advertising career. Ross didn’t think a man was measured by his success or any of that nonsense. He was simply competitive. Had always been that way. Hell, a guy couldn’t play football—and every other sport imaginable—for more than a decade and come out any different. He wanted to be the best. When a knee injury in his senior year of high school had cost him a football career and a full-ride at LSU, Ross had been forced to direct his competitive efforts in another direction—college, then ultimately his career in advertising.

      To that end, he had to land this account, because only the best could handle it.

      “So who’s the lucky guy?” Ross asked, tuning back into the conversation. “Anybody we know?”

      Tate hesitated and a ghost of a smile hovered around his mouth. “As a matter of fact, yes. That’s what I came to talk to you about.”

      “Me?” What did he have to do with it? Ross wondered, suppressing the growing urge to check his e-mail. He’d worked on a couple of new ideas for Maxwell last night and had forwarded them to his office account. Occasionally what seemed like creative genius in the wee hours of the morning turned out to be total shit after a few winks. He was curious to see what this morning’s perspective brought.

      “Yes, you.” Tate paused, and for some reason that ominous silence rang like a death knell. “You see, it’s not just any man that Zora has to hire—it’s you.”

      Ross stilled. Shock jimmied a disbelieving chuckle loose from his throat. “What?”

      Tate smiled grimly. “It’s you. You’re the man she’s hiring.”

      Stunned, Ross shook his head, waited for his frozen smile to thaw. “Er…no, she’s not,” he said flatly. Even if he were so inclined—which he most definitely was not—he didn’t have the time. He had a damn job, one that he currently spent twelve-plus hours a day on. Furthermore, what in the hell would he do for Zora? What could he—a man—possibly do for a chick magazine?

      Tate considered him for a moment, then sighed heavily. “I suppose I could call upon our years of friendship, ask you to do this for me simply because it would give me a small amount of petty satisfaction after listening to my wife repeatedly tell me that she’d never hire a man.” Tate lifted his shoulders in a futile shrug. “But I can tell that it would be a waste of breath, so here’s the deal. Do you want the Maxwell account?”

      Ross blinked at the abrupt change in subject. “Of course I do.”

      “Then it’s simple. If you agree to work for Zora, then it’s yours. If not…” He winced lightly and let the implication hang in the silence.

      Beyond stunned, Ross shook his head. Tate had a reputation for being a bit ruthless, but this was the first time he’d ever been on the receiving end of it. Arguing, Ross knew, would be pointless. Trying to make Tate change his mind once it was set was like bear-hunting with a BB gun. Utterly futile. He picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk. Resisted the urge to grind his teeth. “How long?”

      “Only a week,” Tate told him. He blew out an exasperated breath. “Look, I know I’m playing dirty on this one, but I won,” he said desperately. With a somewhat manic gleam in his normally clear eyes, he leaned forward as though he were about to impart something very important. “Do you know what a rare occurrence that is with my wife? Do you have any idea?”

      “You beat your wife at poker all the time, Tate,” Ross returned flatly.

      “Yeah, but this time it’s different. I’m getting something that Zora’s never had to give up—humility. Come on, Ross,” he cajoled. “It’s only a week. What’s one week out of a lifetime? What’s one measly week for the Maxwell account?”

      Not much, he had to agree. Nevertheless, he didn’t like being a part of Tate and Zora’s poker games and he damned sure didn’t like being blackmailed into getting an account that should have been his to start with.

      Ross normally resisted all attempts to manage and maneuver him, but Tate, the intuitive bastard, had hit upon the one thing that he couldn’t refuse—the Maxwell account. If he would have dangled anything else, Ross would have been able to say no.

      But not this.

      He wanted it. It was a trophy account—the one that would ultimately prove he’d arrived.

      And, though he didn’t appreciate Tate’s method, he’d had the balls to lay it all on the line, so he had to respect him for that, if nothing else. Ross let go a breath and glared at him. “You’re a sneaky bastard, Tate,” he told him, letting him know that he wasn’t completely off the hook.

      “I know.”

      Resigned, Ross rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What exactly is it that I’m supposed to do?”

      Seemingly relieved, Tate leaned back in his seat and winced. “That’s the kicker. I don’t know,” he said grimly. “We’re meeting Zora for lunch at Mama MoJo’s at noon.”

      Ross shot him a hard look. “But it’s only a week, right?”

      Tate nodded. “Right.”

      “Fine,” Ross told him wearily. Hell, he could stand anything for a week, especially if it meant the Maxwell account would be his.

      2

      THREE HOURS LATER Ross’s steps slowed as he entered the eclectic café and the grim realization that he’d been wrong—that there was one thing that he couldn’t take for a week—hit him because that very thing was sitting at their table with Zora—Frankie Salvaterra.

      “You didn’t tell me Mouth would be here,” Ross said tightly. Equal parts anticipation, dread and desire coalesced in his gut, pushed his pulse rate up to pre-stroke level. His skin prickled, his stomach parachuted and his loins ignited into an inferno of repressed lust.

      Regrettably, Frankie always had that effect on him.

      “That’s because I didn’t know,” Tate returned from the side of his mouth as he made his way across the room. He, too, suddenly looked a little uneasy, a fact Ross didn’t find the least bit reassuring.

      Having spotted them, Zora smiled and waved them over. Frankie turned then, and that dark-as-sin gaze СКАЧАТЬ